


a new breath

by worrying



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Rape, Mickey in Mexico, post 7x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8841712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrying/pseuds/worrying
Summary: Mickey doesn’t know how many beers he’s had. Not enough to feel tipsy, but his mind’s pretty fucking foggy. Or maybe that’s just a side effect of moving to another country illegally and having the love of your life leave you for what seems like the thousandth time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i got sad about mickey in class and thought about him befriending a nice old mexican lady who takes him under her wing and this happened

Mickey doesn’t know how many beers he’s had. Not enough to feel tipsy, but his mind’s pretty fucking foggy. Or maybe that’s just a side effect of moving to another country illegally and having the love of your life leave you for what seems like the thousandth time. 

Strings of unintelligible sentences float around him. He has absolutely no fucking idea what the fuck anyone’s _fucking_ saying. But it’s somehow calming. No one’s tried to bother him either, but even if they had, he would have ignored them. He just wants to be alone with this good ass beer. 

The dim light in the bar—that’s one thing he’s learned so far. Apparently bar is the same word in Spanish—makes his eyelids feel droopy. He hasn’t slept since he arrived in Mexico. Just drove for a few hours after changing out of his ridiculous fucking disguise, until he saw a colorful bar with loud music blasting from inside. And _fuck_ , he needed a break. His mind had been racing when he was driving, but now, it’s slowed down into something that isn’t driving him fucking insane. 

He turns the beer bottle in his hands. It’s half empty. He brings it up to his lips and takes a long swig, trying so desperately to take his mind off of Ian. The last kiss they shared. His money in his pocket, weighing him down. His name inked to his chest. He’s under his skin. He’s _on_ his skin. Forever. 

And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe he could learn to give meaning to his impulsive tattoo. Ian Gallagher, the man who set him free. Freedom, all that sappy bullshit. _Bullshit that’s true_ , Mickey thinks, taking another swig. 

More time passes. Two more beers enter his system. His eyelids grow heavier. But he doesn’t want to leave. Leaving the bar means trying to find a fucking place to stay. And yeah, he has money. But he doesn’t have a goddamn clue where to go. He doesn’t speak Spanish. It makes his head hurt, thinking about how hard it’s going to be without Ian beside him. 

“ _Salir. Ahora_.”

Mickey looks up, eyebrow raising. A tiny old woman meets his eye. Her hair is long and grey and her eyes are dark brown and there’s a piece of tattoo poking out from her sleeve. Mickey wants to laugh a little when he realizes that she’s not sitting down. She has to be, what? _Four feet tall_? She looks completely fucking harmless. 

“ _Ahora_.” She repeats, her voice harder. 

“Jesus,” Mickey whispers to himself, pushing his empty bottle away. He doesn’t have time for this. “I don’t know what that means, lady.”

Her face softens, and she unties her apron slowly as she stares him down. “I said leave. Now.” Her English is pretty good, and she only has a slight accent. 

“Look, can you maybe push the fuck back? I don’t have a place to stay.” He says, trying to keep his voice from raising. He doesn’t want the table of scary looking dudes to beat his ass for yelling at a sweet old lady. He turns to look at them but they’re gone. _Everyone’s_ gone, except for him. “I... could help clean shit up? Or something? I don’t fucking know. Fuck.”

“You curse more than anyone I’ve ever fucking known, _niño._ ” 

Mickey snorts at that, raising his eyebrow again. “Calm down, grandma.”

“ _Abuela_.”

Mickey just stares at her. He’d only taken one Spanish class in high school before he dropped out. He doesn’t have a fucking clue what anyone around here is saying. 

“ _Abuela_. Grandma.” She explains, crossing her arms. Her sleeve lifts a little and Mickey can see a bit more of her tattoo. It looks old and untouched. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it. You are obviously staying here for a while. Something went wrong. You run from the police, maybe. You need to learn Spanish.” 

Mickey gulps, leaning back in his stool slightly. “How did you—”

“No worries. Just say it.”

“What was the fucking word again?”

A smile crosses her lips. “ _Abuela_.”

“ _Ab...uela_ ,” 

“Not bad for a very, very white boy.”

Mickey shakes his head, trying to stop himself from smiling at the woman. “Thanks. I guess.”

“I wanted you to go because I own this place. I cannot close until the last person leaves. You are the last person.” She places the apron she has in her hands next to his beer bottle. “But, you don’t have a place to sleep. So you’re coming with me.”

Mickey must have misheard her. He squints, cocking his head slightly. “Sorry, what?”

“My house, a few miles from here. I have a guest room. _Mi hijo_ , my son, his old room.” She tosses the wet rag she used to wipe down a table into the sink, near the mini fridge where some of the beers are stored. “Come on, then.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna—”

“ _Por el amor de Dios_ , come on. I will not let you have nowhere to sleep.”

Mickey hops off the stool, looking down at the woman. She’s, like, a head and a half shorter than him. “What’s your name?”

“Josefina.” She answers easily, crossing her arms again. “ _Y tu? Como se llama_?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows again. “I told you I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying.” 

Josefina rolls her eyes before turning and walking towards the exit, keys jingling in her hand. “Your name. What is it?”

Mickey follows her, unsure whether to tell her his real name. Then again, she’s a tiny old Mexican woman who’s probably too short to ride any rollercoasters. “Mickey.”

“Mickey Mouse?” Josefina asks, a short bubble of laughter erupting from her lips. “Is that your real name?”

“Well, it’s short for something. Mikhailo. Never really liked it after some jerkoff made fun of it at school.”

She turns the lights off in the bar, opening the door and holding it, nodding at him. He steps outside into the darkness, crickets chirping, the moon lighting up the streets. After locking up the bar, she turns and speaks. “ _Mikhailo_. Never heard that before.”

“It’s Ukrainian.” He says softly. He doesn’t know why he’s so easily telling this woman his entire fucking life story. Maybe it’s because she’s nice or maybe it’s because he hasn’t talked to anyone besides Ian or Damon in the past few days. 

“Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, it’s over there.” He says, pointing to the car he stole before entering the country. It’s parked near the bar’s sign. 

“Ay, _gracias_. I usually walk to work because _mi hijo_ has my car.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “You walk to fucking work every day? I thought you said you lived a few miles away?”

“I do.” She says. “Good exercise for me, though. Bad knees are in my family, I’m not losing my fucking knees.”

Mickey laughs, the sound echoing around them. “You’re a little old badass.”

Josefina rolls her eyes again, walking towards the car. “What did you do? To come here?”

Mickey’s not sure why he does, but he talks. She could be an undercover fucking cop for all he knows, but he talks. “Well, I broke out of fucking prison, for one.” 

“ _Dios. Es cierto_?”

Mickey doesn’t complain about not understanding, just gets in the car and starts the engine. “Yeah. I tried to kill my ex-boyfriend’s sister.”

Josefina laughs in disbelief, clicking her seatbelt. “ _Por que?_ Why?”

“That stupid bitch snitched on him, that’s why.” He pulls out of the bar’s parking lot, driving slowly on the deserted streets. “His other sister helped me, but I couldn’t say that shit when I got caught. I went down for it. I was in prison for a little bit until I broke out. Me and him, the ex-boyfriend, we were so close to making it here. I knew he wasn’t going to come in the end. I think I realized it when we were in Texas.”

“Why is that? Why didn’t he come? Turn left.”

Mickey turns left. His heart sinks a little when he thinks about Ian. “He had a fucking life. Another boyfriend, a job. He’s doing real fucking good. I knew he wasn’t going to drop everything for my ass. I’m not mad at him for it. I just miss him.”

“For someone who looks so cold, you are a very romantic person.”

“Fuck off, Josefina.” Mickey says lightly, following another one of her directions. “What about you? What’s your story?”

She hums in thought. “Never got married. Men are idiots. Stupid, fucking idiots, most of the time. I have two kids from a man who left. Dante and Gloria. Loves of my fucking life. _Mis amores_. They’re both in the states, doing school. I learned English when I had Gloria, so she could be bilingual.”

Mickey smiles at that, but feels his heart ache. “My piece of shit dad didn’t do fuck all for me. My mom, I was real close to her, though. She knew I was gay when I was really fucking young, middle school age probably. She was okay with it, she just told me not to tell my fucking dad. When she died, I was stuck with him and he found out. Didn’t go to well.”

Josefina makes a noise of disgust. “What kind of father doesn’t accept his son? The same thing happened to Dante. That’s why he left, the _pinche idiota_.”

Mickey snorts again and follows another one of her directions, turning right. “Your son’s gay?”

“He is. I do not know how a parent chooses to hate their child for something they simply cannot change.”

Mickey clears his throat, blinking rapidly to try to keep from crying or something fucking stupid like that. “I have a son. He’s... he was...My fucking dad, he caught me and my ex-boyfriend together. He called this Russian prostitute to come fuck the gay out of me, as he said.”

Josefina’s hand comes to rest against Mickey’s on top of the gearshift. “ _Mi niño, lo siento._ I’m sorry.”

“He’s a great kid, though.” Mickey says after a minute, once he’s sure his voice isn’t going to break. “I know he’s going to be okay with his mom. I thought about taking him here with me, but I figured it’d be best if he stayed in Chicago. It would be real fucking dangerous with me, running from cops and shit.”

“He’s lucky to have had you. Even for a small amount of time.” She says softly, patting his hand before letting it rest in her lap again. “What happened to your father? I hope he’s rotting.”

Mickey laughs wetly, wiping at his eye. “I’m not even sure. Jail. Maybe prison. Far away from me, the fucking good for nothing asshole.”

“Good. _Pendejo_. Okay, turn left and we’re on my street.”

Mickey takes a deep breath and turns left. He feels like a fucking weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He’s never really just...talked to someone about the shit that’s gone down in his life. He couldn’t even talk to Ian about it sometimes, so it’s a fucking mystery as to why a little old Mexican lady got him to talk about some rough shit. 

“That one.”

Mickey follows where her finger’s pointing. It’s a white house with the porch area lit up. There’s a tiny bicycle lying in the driveway, there’s what looks like confetti scattered in the lawn. “The fuck happened here?”

“I tell the neighborhood kids they can play here during the day so it looks like someone’s home. That way, no one can steal my shit.”

“Smart.” Mickey compliments, pulling into the driveway and making sure he doesn’t run over the bike. “Listen, I can sleep in my car for a night until I find somewhere. You really don’t have to—”

“ _Cállate_. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” She interrupts, unclicking her seatbelt. After opening the door, she steps out and pulls her gray hair into a bun. 

Mickey reluctantly kills the engine, stepping out into the darkness. He doesn’t want to bother the poor lady. “Look, I know you might just not know the nice way to tell me to get the fuck on with it and—”

“Mikhailo, _cállate_.” She says again, her voice stern and hard. “If you have a place to stay and you want to go, then you may leave. But if you are just going to sleep in your car until you find a place to live, you are at least going to stay here until you find somewhere.”

Mickey sighs, shoulders sagging. “I don’t want you to think—”

“ _Cállate_.”

“The fuck’s that mean? Why the fuck you keep saying it?”

Josefina, house keys twirling around on her index finger, laughs. Her eyes crinkle up, wrinkles prominent. “It means shut up. Okay, so follow me.”

Mickey follows her. She takes the steps up to her porch slowly, and Mickey wants to roll his eyes before he remembers that she’s a fucking old lady and he’s an asshole. Once they reach the top, she unlocks the front door and steps in, holding the door open for him. “ _Mi cocina es un desastre_ ,” She says quickly, ignoring the raise of Mickey’s eyebrows. “Did not have time to clean up this morning after breakfast.”

Desastre. Sounds like disaster. Breakfast. He pieces it together. The kitchen’s a goddamn mess. And when he turns the corner of the front room, he gets it. There’s pots and pans and an egg carton on a chair and he’s pretty sure there’s a trail of beans on the floor. “The fuck did you do this morning?”

“I give neighborhood kids breakfast many mornings. Their parents are usually at work. They pay me.”

“Pay you to feed their kids? That’s fucking lazy.”

Josefina laughs at that, throwing the egg carton in the trash beside the oven. “It is. But I get money.”

The house is cozy. It’s more comfortable than his house ever was, except for when everything was nice and dandy and Ian was there. Iggy, Mandy. Yevgeny. He finds himself smiling.

“Sit.” Josefina says, opening the refrigerator. “I made tacos yesterday. They’re still good. Do you like rice? Beans? Both?”

“You don’t have to—”

“ _Rice? Beans? Both?_ ”

Mickey sighs in defeat, sitting down in one of the chairs at the messy table. “Both.”

She smiles at his answer, popping open the microwave. “In a few weeks, it’s Christmas.” She says, going back to the refrigerator for cheese and lettuce. “Why don’t you stay until then. It’s not fun to spend holidays alone.”

Mickey shifts in his seat. Ian’s money feels heavy in his pocket. He was thinking about a beach house. Always warm, sunny, never having to freeze his fucking ass off. “Maybe. I just—I was thinking about a beach house. I’ve always wanted to live near the beach.”

“The beach isn’t far from here.”

Josefina’s fucking fast with food it turns out, and before Mickey knows it she’s setting a plate in front of him. There’s two tacos, rice, beans, and a little bowl of salsa. “Thank you. And, I just… I don’t know. I planned on getting a beach house with Ian. I don’t really wanna give that up.”

“Ian? The ex-boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes, scooping up a good amount of rice and taking a bite. “Holy shit. This is good.”

“I know.”

Mickey snorts, taking another big bite. “I just need to find a job and whatever the fuck.”

“You can work at the bar.”

“I really can’t let you do that. I already feel like a fucking asshole for being here, I—”

“ _Escucha_. I know that you need help. It’s okay. Everyone needs help at some point. You’re in another country, you cannot speak Spanish, and you do not have a place to stay. Let me help you. It is against everything I am not to help someone when they need it.”

Mickey stares at her. There’s no way he can take her offer. There’s no fucking way. He has to do this himself. He has to do it himself, like he’s always done. _But this is a new start_ , he thinks. Maybe he should just take a fucking chance on this old lady. Maybe he should work at a bar, live here for a while. Maybe that’s his best shot at making something of himself.

He fucking refuses to be a piece of shit again. He refuses to do something illegal for money. He can’t get caught again.

“Fine. I’ll stay here. But I don’t know how to thank you, or—”

“Thank me by working very hard at the bar. You may not think so, but that shit is very hard work.”

 

* * *

 

The guest room slowly turns into Mickey’s room. It was Dante’s old room before he left for college.

Mickey learns a lot about Dante. He wants to be a doctor. He’s in his late twenties. He goes to school in Washington. He’s apparently the spitting image of his father.

He makes sure not to fuck up the room too much. There’s pictures and small belongings of Josefina’s son that are just _there,_ alongside his messy clothes and shit he swiped from his house before he made the grand ol’ escape. He has a picture of Yevgeny, a watch, his favorite lighter, and a sketchbook. The picture of Ian, _that’s_ in his car. He looks at it when they drive to work and when they come back home.

_Home._

It doesn’t take too long for Mickey to refer to it as his home.

Josefina’s great. She cooks, she got him a job, she’s great company. Mickey asked her one night while they were having a smoke about the tattoo on her arm. It turns out that she got it during the 60’s when she was trying to rebel against her parents. It’s a bunch of flowers and a hummingbird.

 

* * *

 

Work is great. He meets a lot of cool people when he’s working.

One Tuesday night he met a dude with a giant fucking cowboy hat and a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He looked like he came straight out of a fucking movie. He wanted to tell Ian about him. Hell, even Iggy. He would have gotten a kick out of it.

It’s also fun, just having his mind off of things. He serves beers and learns how to make different drinks and helps Josefina clean when they close up. He makes good money, and it piles up with the cash Ian gave him.

He buys Josefina a little portable deep fryer for the bar. They make more money when they start serving appetizers along with the drinks.

 

* * *

 

When it’s near Christmas, Mickey realizes how much Spanish he’s learned. It’s only been a few weeks, but being around the language at work and having Josefina smack him with wet rags if he gets words wrong really fucking helped.

He isn’t fluent, he’s nowhere fucking _near_ fluent, but he’s getting there. Josefina calls him _Spanglish_.

 

* * *

 

Josefina’s been stressing about Dante coming back for the holidays for what seems like _months_.

She’s cleaned the house a million times and she’s made more tamales than they’re ever going to eat.

“He only comes here a couple times a year,” She explains when she sees Mickey staring at her with an eyebrow raised. She continues to sweep the already-swept floor. “I don’t want the house to look like shit for him.”

He doesn’t see why Dante would care. From the few phone calls he’s had with him, he seems nice and relaxed for someone who wants to be a doctor. Someone all _official_. Josefina forced Mickey to talk to her son a few times, just so he’d know that, _no,_ he isn’t the bad kind of criminal, _yes,_ he’s very nice and he’s helping me with the bar.

“When’s he getting here again?”

“Any minute, _mierda_.”

Mickey snorts at the curse and spins the beer bottle in his hands. It’s half full.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Josefina throws the broom into the closet and straightens out her sweater, taking a deep breath. “Be nice to him, Mikhailo.”

“Yeah, yeah, what the fuck ever.” He mutters, taking a swig of beer.

He faintly hears their reunion from the kitchen table. It would feel too much like intruding if he were to have gotten up, so he just stays at the table, awkwardly reading the Spanish label on his beer.

Not long after, footsteps approach the kitchen. Josefina enters first, face taken over by a giant smile, then Dante.

And, well. Holy fucking shit.

Dante’s tall, has wavy black hair, full lips, dark eyes. His skin is beautifully brown. Mickey stands up and holds his hand out, biting at his bottom lip. “Hi. I’m Mickey.”


	2. feliz navidad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, though, this is something he’s never experienced. It’s the first time he’s looking at a Christmas tree, in a warm house (their heater was always a piece of shit), the smell of tamales in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was sad about mickey on christmas so this was born

“Mi amor, do me a favor and hang this up, will you?”

Mickey watches with a small smile on his face as Dante takes the star decoration from his mother’s hands. He’d have offered to help but the couch in Josefina’s living room is too comfortable. He doesn’t want to move. Plus, he’s too fucking short for the big ass Christmas tree. Dante doesn’t even have to get on his tiptoes to reach the top. Asshole.

“Mamá, we’re Skyping Gloria later. Don’t forget,” Dante says after sitting back down on the couch. His wavy dark hair is glistening a light brown color from where the sun’s hitting it. Mickey blinks a few times. He’s fucking beautiful. Off limits, too, probably. Josefina would kill him if he made a move on her son, he’s pretty sure.

“I’d never forget, mijo.”

Although Dante’s only been at Josefina’s for a few days, Mickey likes the kid. He’s pretty cool for someone who speaks in big dumbass medical words all the time.

Mickey’s learned about Gloria, too. She’s two years older than Dante and wants to be a teacher. She’s staying in the states for the holidays to get a head start on classes. She’s really determined to be the best and make something of herself, and Mickey likes her for that.

His family on the other hand, is nothing like Josefina’s. Josefina’s is small and loving and caring, they always know what the other is doing or where they are. Mickey doesn’t know a fucking thing about what his siblings are up to. Iggy could be dead in a ditch for all he knows.

“What are you thinking about?”

Mickey looks over at Josefina and shrugs. “My family.”

She makes a face at his answer, moving closer to him on the couch. Mickey gulps when she sets her hand on his. He was never shown much affection by his family. It’s taken some getting used to, Josefina always hugging him or holding him when he’s visibly upset. “ _Por qué estás triste?_ Hmm? Why are you sad?”

Mickey takes a shaky breath and shrugs. He doesn’t want to look like a dumbass in front of the two of them. “Just wonder what they’re doing, is all.”

“Could you call them?”

Mickey looks over at Dante with a sad smile, scoffing. “I’m a wanted fugitive and I can’t memorize numbers worth a shit. So, no.”

“Email? Social media?”

“Milkoviches don’t do that shit.”

Josefina pats his hand a few times. “I bet they’re having a good holiday. I bet they miss you.”

“I’m a piece of shit, they don’t miss me.” Mickey spits, biting at his bottom lip. Mandy, wherever the fuck she may be, she doesn’t miss him. Why would she? Iggy’s probably too fucked up to even remember that it’s Christmas, or that he’s not there. Ian…Ian’s not thinking about him. He’s back with his own family, his boyfriend.

Josefina makes a noise that sounds like a Spanish curse word but Mickey’s not too sure. “Family is forever. You may not think so, but they’re thinking of you. You’re their brother. They love you. Forever. _Por siempre.”_

Mickey can only nod. He doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to risk his voice cracking. He doesn’t want to cry, either.

He looks at the Christmas tree. The ornaments are hanging beautifully; the lights are twinkling in multicolor. He’s never really had a real Christmas before. Before his mom died, they were too poor to get presents. After his mom died, his dad didn’t give a fuck about them to do anything for the holidays.

Now, though, this is something he’s never experienced. It’s the first time he’s looking at a Christmas tree, in a warm house (their heater was always a piece of shit), the smell of tamales in the air. Josefina’s holding his hand, talking to Dante about the Skype session they have later.

He wishes Iggy and Mandy were here.

They deserve a real first Christmas, too.

* * *

On Christmas day, Mickey wakes up to the smell of food.

He rolls over in bed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes for a few seconds, stretching out his legs. When he’s fully awake, he notices that Spanish music is blasting from the _cocina,_ too. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s loud.

After pulling on a clean shirt and jeans, he makes his way into the kitchen. The tiles are cold against his bare feet, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck. He just wants to eat some good food, and Josefina’s been promising that it’s going to be good. He didn’t ever doubt her, anything she cooks is fucking amazing.

“ _Feliz Navidad_ , Mickey!” Josefina yells happily when she sees him enter the room, giggling as she gets spun around by Dante. “Do you want to join in? _Baila con nosotros!”_

Mickey snorts, sliding into one of the chairs at the table. “No thanks.”

“ _No eres divertido,_ Mickey. You’re no fun.” Josefina complains, but she’s got a smile on her lips. “If you don’t dance with us, no tamales for you. And none of the _frijoles_ you love.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “I don’t dance.”

Dante rolls his eyes beside Josefina. “We aren’t professional dancers, it’s just fun. C’mon.”

 _Fuck._ He doesn’t remember the last time he even danced. Probably when he was ten years old at a skating rink with Mandy. “Don’t do this, I love the _frijoles._ ”

Josefina’s eyebrows shoot up, her smile growing bigger. “You know what, just for pronouncing _frijoles_ correctly I’ll give you a pass. You’re getting better, you know.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the small smile from forming on his lips. He’s insecure about speaking Spanish, even though he tries to convince himself he isn’t. He’s the whitest motherfucker around and he knows he’s not the best at speaking the language, but hey. At least he’s fucking trying.

“Tell Dante the only Spanish you knew when you got here.” Josefina says, balancing a plate of tamales on one hand and a pitcher of lemonade with the other. “ _Es el mejor,_ Dante.”

“Please don’t make me embarrass myself—”

“ _Please_ tell me, I won’t laugh. I promise.”

Mickey glares at Dante but his dark brown eyes make him nervous, so he looks at the floor. “ _Dilo otra vez y te hago tragar tu verga._ ” He says slowly, making sure to pronounce every syllable correctly. When he first learned the phrase, he sounded like a fucking idiot when he said it. He thinks he’s better at saying it now.

“Holy shit.” Dante says, grinning. “But really though, you do sound good for someone who’s just learning.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Josefina sets down a plate of tamales, a bowl of beans and rice, salsa, tortillas, eggs, and butter. “Eat.”

“I fucking will, don’t worry.”

* * *

After lunch (they eat the same thing again: a shit ton of tamales, a shit ton of beans and rice, tortillas, and a bunch of junk food Dante bought at the convenience store a few blocks down the road) the three of them are sitting in the living room, watching a black and white Christmas movie that’s boring as fuck.

Mickey’s full. He ate so much that he feels a bit sick, but Josefina’s food is so fucking good he can’t really resist it. When he was growing up, all he ever ate was fast food or sandwiches with weird, random things inside or watered down shitty mac and cheese from a box. It’s really weird having good, homemade food.

“ _Un regalo para ti,”_ Dante says after awhile, taking a wrapped present from beside the couch. “I know you said not to get you anything, but I saw this in Washington and thought it was funny.”

Josefina takes the gift with squinted eyes, then begins to unwrap it. It’s a plain white mug. “ _Mijo_ , how is this funny?”

“Pretend like you’re taking a sip, _mamá._ Look at Mickey when you do it.”

Josefina looks at him with her still squinted eyes but then faces Mickey, bringing the mug up to her lips.

Mickey immediately bursts into laughter at the sight. Under the mug is a giant middle finger, only visible when someone’s drinking out of it. “Holy shit. That’s great.” Josefina still looks confused as fuck so Mickey raises his eyebrows and motions at the mug. “Look under it.”

Josefina flips it over and breaks out into a wide grin, shaking her head. “Ay, _mi niño._ I love it.”

“Mickey has his fuck you up tattoos and now you have a fuck you mug. Perfect.” Dante says, leaning back into the couch. “When did you get those tattoos?”

“I was a dipshit in a middle school who wanted to look tough.” Mickey admits, laughing to himself. He looks at his knuckles, the black ink of his tattoo a big contrast of his white skin.

“You _are_ tough,” Josefina says with a smile. Her gray hair is up in a bun, a few strands falling on her shoulders. “You’ve been through a lot, _mijo._ Don’t talk down on yourself.”

“Alright, alright,” Mickey grumbles, turning his focus back to the movie.

With a stomach full of food, the warmth of the house, and the unfamiliar feeling of family and comfort, Mickey’s eyes start to feel heavy.

When he falls asleep, he’s smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> i can’t believe this is canon


End file.
